Page 2 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Scarlet

Five Years Later

T he night air kisses my skin with a teasing chill, the kind that makes me feel awake.

Alive; like the world is whispering secrets just for me.

I lean against the cool stone railing of the balcony, staring down at the dizzying drop beneath my bare feet.

For one reckless heartbeat, I imagine what it would feel like to leap—just fly , like I’m not tied to anything.

Like gravity doesn’t matter and my last name isn’t Castillo.

A stupid thought. Silly. Dangerous.

But it feels so good to imagine.

Everyone says I should be grateful. That I’m lucky to be Adriana Castillo, daughter of El Jefe himself.

I’m not some pawn in a blood-soaked game of strategy.

I’m not being married off to seal a deal.

I’m not locked away in some glass tower, pretty and useless.

My father lets me into the room. He talks business with me. He gives me choices to an extent.

But Luciano… he doesn’t like that.

His jealousy clings to me like smoke—sharp, sour, impossible to ignore. It’s not the first time I’ve caught him staring at me like I stole something that was meant for him.

He plays the loyal Consejero, always at Papá‘s side, always the perfect son. But I see it. The way his jaw tightens when Papá praises me. The way his gaze burns, not with hate exactly, but with something colder. Something that says: You don’t belong in this world, hermanita .

Maybe I don’t.

The sky stretches wide and endless above me, a velvet canvas scattered with stars.

I tilt my head back and drink it in. I don’t ever want to leave this place.

This city, loud and wild, aching with beauty and danger—it’s mine .

It lives in my chest. It beats in time with my heart.

Even now, the music from the ballroom hums behind me, muffled but insistent, like it’s calling me back inside.

A leaf drifts down, brushing my cheek before I catch it between my fingers.

It’s the color of spilled wine, deep maroon, threaded with delicate gold veins.

I hold it up to the streetlight, studying its edges, wondering if it’s from one of the beech trees at the edge of the hotel.

Back in South Florida, leaves don’t fall like this.

Everything there is green and humid and heavy.

But here? Here, the seasons change.

The world transforms.

And maybe I will too.

My gaze slides past the gold-trimmed curtains, toward the glittering ballroom inside. The chandeliers shimmer like stardust. The laughter, the music, the whispers; they aren’t mine. Not yet. But they could be.

If I want them.

If I’m brave enough.

The party pulses behind me; a glittering blur of silk gowns, polished shoes, and too-white smiles.

Champagne flutes clink like wind chimes in a storm of murmured deals and fake laughter.

I’m sure my father is floating through the crowd with that easy grace he’s mastered over the years, nodding, smiling, shaking hands like a king among pawns.

He calls these people his wealthy associates.

But I know better.

In my father’s world, no one is truly free. Everyone owes him something—or they will, soon enough.

The glass door behind me slides open with a whisper of warning, and I tense before I even hear his voice .

“Get back inside,” Luciano says, his fingers curling around my arm just tight enough to bruise if I let him.

I don’t.

I twist out of his grip, careful not to wrinkle the dress I spent hours picking out. It hugs me like a second skin; sweet and daring all at once. It’s the first time I’ve ever worn something that made me feel… like this. Like I could walk into a room and own it.

It’s red, of course.

My Favorite.

I don’t bother responding to my brother. He’s not worth my breath right now. I just lift my chin and walk back into the ballroom like nothing happened.

My heels click against the polished floor, too high for comfort, and definitely unnecessary at five-seven, but I wanted to feel grown. Powerful. Sexy. I regret it now. My feet ache, and I’m pretty sure my left pinky toe is plotting revenge, but I keep walking.

I need a drink.

Yes, I’m underage.

No, I don’t care.

I’m Adriana Scarlet Castillo— his daughter.

And no one here is going to stop me.

I cut through the crowd with quiet purpose, people parting like they feel me coming before they see me. That’s the thing about being his daughter, no one makes a pass, no one makes a mistake. They look, sure . But they know better.

I finally reach the bar, slipping into a small gap between two men in suits, and rest my hand on the edge, trying to catch the bartender’s attention.

She doesn’t see me.

Too busy flipping her hair at some older guy at the end of the bar, laughing at something that probably wasn’t funny. I don’t blame her. He’s probably a good tipper. But I’ve been standing here for a full minute, and I’m starting to feel like maybe I don’t belong after all.

I tap my nails against the counter, trying to remember what my friend Carmen told me to order. Something with lime? No. Mint? No, that was for mojitos. Ugh.

My brain spins, and my confidence starts to slip.

But then I remember.

Manhattan. That’s the one she said tasted like cherry cola. I don’t even know what’s in it. I just remember cherries.

And I love cherries.

I shift on my aching feet, glance around once, then lean a little more onto the bar, trying to catch the bartender’s eye again. Just an inch more—and in my desperation, my elbow nudges the base of a glass perched a little too close to the edge. It wobbles, then topples.

A splash.

A sharp curse.

I whip around as the drink spills all over the man next to me.

“Oh no! I’m so sorry,” I gasp, grabbing a napkin and instinctively blotting at the mess.

It isn’t until I realize where I’m blotting— oh, no no no no —that my breath stalls in my throat.

My hand freezes, mortification flooding every vein in my body. I’ve just dabbed a stranger’s crotch.

His crotch.

I look up, already stammering, apology halfway formed only to come face to face with him.

Gray eyes. Light and piercing, like storm clouds lit from the inside.

They crinkle faintly with amusement, a slow, lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

His jaw is sharp enough to make my knees question everything.

His dark hair is perfectly tousled, like he just ran his fingers through it before walking in here to ruin someone’s life.

Mine, apparently .

“You should buy me dinner first,” he drawls, voice low and smooth as silk, “if you’re going to touch me like that.”

I yank my hand back like I’ve been burned, cheeks blazing. “I didn’t mean to, I just, I was trying to help. I didn’t even see—”

“I noticed,” he says, that maddening smirk still carved into his face.

My heart won’t slow down. I step back, practically tripping over my own heels. “I’m going to go,” I mumble, suddenly desperate for air, for escape, for anywhere but here.

Before I can turn, his hand wraps around my wrist.

Not rough.

Not possessive.

But… firm. Deliberate. Like he’s used to people obeying the second he speaks.

My breath catches again. His thumb brushes over the inside of my wrist, warm and slow, and I hate that I don’t hate the way it makes me feel.

“Don’t go yet,” he says, calm and unbothered, like the world always listens when he speaks. His eyes are on me again, steady and unreadable. “What’s your name?”

“Scarlet,” I whisper before I can stop myself.

It’s not a lie, it’s just… the middle name I use when I want to feel bold. And right now, I need bold.

His smirk curves into something darker, something more dangerous. He lets go of my wrist, but I still feel the imprint of his touch like it’s been tattooed onto my skin.

“Like your cheeks,” he murmurs, his hand lifting to trace my jawline now, slow and maddening. “I like that.”

My lungs forget their rhythm, my chest frozen under the weight of his gaze.

He stands, towering over me in a way that should make me feel small, but doesn’t. Not exactly. He tilts my chin up with a single finger, and I have no choice but to meet his gaze—those impossible eyes dragging every secret I’ve ever had to the surface.

“So, Scarlet,” he says, voice velvet-wrapped and edged with something wicked, “what brings you here tonight?”

I open my mouth to answer.

“Let’s go, Angelo,” a voice cuts in, sharp and impatient.

Angelo.

My stomach lurches. Something about that name slams into my chest like a warning bell.

He doesn’t react, just sighs, slow and annoyed; like he’s not finished with me yet. And maybe he isn’t.

Angelo’s hand drops from my face, and I feel the loss immediately, like cold air rushing in where warmth used to be. He exhales, sharp and irritated, before turning toward the newcomer.

The man who interrupts is tall and severe, with buzzed hair and slate-gray eyes that feel like they’ve seen too much. There’s a similar power between them— commanding, unreadable —but where Angelo radiates a kind of dangerous charm, this one is colder, more precise. Calculated.

“I’m kind of busy, Santo,” Angelo mutters, his voice edged with annoyance.

Santo.

The name hits with the same gravity as Angelo’s.

Santo’s gaze slides from Angelo to me. His eyebrows lift, just slightly, before settling into a look of faint disbelief.

“Seriously?” he says flatly, eyes narrowing at Angelo.

There’s a shift in Angelo’s stance; he turns toward Santo, body angled like a shield. “What?” he bites back.

The tension crackles between them, silent but heavy. Santo leans in, muttering something low and sharp under his breath. I could strain to listen, but honestly? I don’t want to know.

I slip away quietly, weaving back through the crowd and slipping out onto the balcony once again. The air is cool and crisp, brushing against my skin like silk, and I breathe it in greedily.